


novis initiis

by halfabreath



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: and thus an anime-eyed friendship is born, trans!Ransom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 16:00:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14216703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfabreath/pseuds/halfabreath
Summary: Justin's ready for his new start. He’s completely recovered from his surgery, his new coaches have assured him that he’s welcome, he finally feels right, settled into his bones for the first time in his life, and best of all, nobody here knows him from before. They won’t call him the wrong name, because they don’t know it. He has a spot on the team, a major that’s been declared, and Justin is ready.For Ransom Week.





	novis initiis

**Author's Note:**

> just in the nick of time for Ransom Week! a huge thank you to @dusttandashes for betaing this!

Justin Oluransi stares up at the wooden door that looms before him, heavy hockey bag resting on his shoulder. The skin aches where the weight presses down through his thin shirt, the bag stuffed full with anything and everything Justin thought he might need. He’d made a list last night after his parents moved him into his dorm room. They’d lingered longer than they needed to, his father trying to oil the squeaky window while his mother rearranged his bookshelf and organized and then reorganized the small box where he keeps his testosterone and syringes for his intramuscular injections ( _I just want you to be able to find everything, baby, and don’t you forget to massage your chest every day, don’t skip, oh, where’s your lotion? Do I need to run out and get more? Justin don’t you roll your eyes at me -_ ). He hadn’t forgotten his lotion, and he hadn’t forgotten to massage his chest. She always thinks he’ll forget, because she’s his mother and she loves him (she loved him before she knew he  _was_ , is, will continue to be, a him).

But Justin didn’t forget, because he’s ready for his new start. He’s completely recovered from his surgery, his new coaches have assured him that he’s welcome, he finally feels  _right_ , settled into his bones for the first time in his life, and best of all, nobody here knows him from before. They won’t call him the wrong name, because they don’t know it. He has a spot on the team, a major that’s been declared, and Justin is  _ready_.

He just needs to open the locker room door, and it’s just a tiny bit more difficult than he’d anticipated, but practice doesn’t start for another thirty minutes so it’s fine if he just. Takes his time. Takes a breath.

Justin ends up taking forty two breaths before he finally manages to push open the door, but he does manage to open the door, and he thinks that’s what matters. When he steps inside his heart is hammering inside his chest. He’s never actually been in a men’s locker room before. He’s had the hockey dressing room experience - hell, he feels like he’s  _lived_  in dressing rooms throughout the years - and he may have played for the best secondary school hockey team in Toronto but he also played for the best secondary school  _women’s_  hockey team in Toronto, so yeah, this is his first men’s dressing room.

It’s pretty much the exact same as a women’s locker room. It’s nicer, yeah, because it houses a NCAA Division I team, but it’s the same cubbies, same equipment, same everything.

Justin hadn’t expected that.

He spots his name written above a cubby and tosses his bag in. There’s only two other people in the room, one with an impressive flow and moustache, the other is - fuck.  _Fuck_. It’s Jack Zimmermann. Ransom’s about to get changed in front of Jack Zimmermann.

Justin leaves his body for a little bit. He’s pretty sure he astral projects right there in the dressing room, but the other two men don’t seem to notice. Jack spends at least fifteen minutes taping his stick while the other guy sits and talks to him. In the span of those fifteen minutes he manages to go from talking about his class schedule to dissecting the nuances of third wave feminism and if or when fourth wave feminism will come about, and Justin’s heard a lot of talk about feminism in locker rooms but he hadn’t anticipated hearing it in  _this_  locker room. It’s strangely comforting.

Justin’s taping his own stick when Jack stands suddenly and leaves. His friend takes it in stride, green eyes jumping around the room until they land on Justin.

“What’s up, brah?” He says, offering Justin a little wave. “I’m Shitty.”

Justin blinks. “You’re what?” He asks, almost dropping his stick in his surprise. Is that the kind of nickname this team gives their players? What the hell has he gotten himself into?

“Hell yeah!” Shitty says happily. “Sick nickname, right? Definitely an improvement on my real name.” Justin’s not really sure what leads someone to reach the point where they’re enthused about that nickname, but hey, Justin’s had some experience with choosing a name for yourself and if Shitty wants to be Shitty, then Justin will call him Shitty.

“I’m Justin,” he offers, giving Shitty a little wave in return.

“Cool, good to meet you. Let me know if you need anything. We don’t have a team manager yet.” Shitty explains, gesturing to the very top of Justin’s cubby. “Everything you didn’t bring should be up there. Come out when you’re dressed, Jack likes to warm up before warmups.” He says, speaking so quickly Justin almost can’t make out the individual words in his thick Boston accent. Before Justin can thank him he’s trotting out the door, and Justin’s left alone in what is frankly a miraculous window of opportunity.

Justin changes quickly, throwing on his undershirt before getting on his pants and pads. He’s covered up before the door swings open. Other players start trickling in but they don’t pay him any mind, too interested in talking to teammates they haven't seen for the entire summer.  Relief floods his system, followed by guilt. It shouldn’t matter if they see him. He belongs here, he’s a member of this team and so what if he’s got scars and packers and testosterone sitting in his room instead of in his body?

Justin shakes the thoughts from his head and grabs his helmet once his skates are on. He’ll feel better once he’s on the ice. He always does.

Practice begins with a shrill whistle and a series of loud shouts and clacking as the team gathers in center ice. The coaches, Hall and Murray, address them briefly before splitting the team up into offense and defense. He’s assigned a partner, Birk-something, and Justin skates through the crowd until he spots the last player without a partner.

Jesus Christ, he’s  _huge_.

Look - Justin is six foot two, he’s a tall guy, but he’s only a few months out from top surgery and he hasn’t been able to bulk up in the preseason like he’d wanted to. This guy, though, doesn’t seem like he can possibly bulk up any more. When Justin approaches a pair of shockingly blue eyes settle on him, and although the guy’s expression stays flat Justin can’t help but feel that he’s being analyzed.

“Are you - ?” Justin begins, skating up until they’re close enough to hear each other over the din of the ice.

“Yeah, I’m Birkholtz. Boys back in juniors called me Birker.” He says with a nod, deep voice cutting through the clacking of pucks against sticks and the sound of their teammates pressing each other into the boards.  _Boys back in juniors_ , he’d said. This guy almost went pro, and he’s  _Justin’s partner_. His mind spins with the implications. Does this mean the coaches think he’s good enough to play with him? Or did they pair their best d-man with their worst? Something in Justin’s chest tightens as Birkholtz looks down at him expectantly.

“Oluransi. Back in Toronto the gir -  _they_  called me Ranser…” Justin trails off, nausea rising in the pit of his stomach. Birkholtz doesn’t seem to be reacting, though, his gaze still flat beneath his shield. He doesn’t look phased at all, actually, and maybe he’s just not a very reactive guy? Justin’s not sure.

Before Justin can truly begin to panic, Shitty sails by. “Oh shit!” He exclaims, swooping around to circle them quickly. “We should call you Ransom and Holster. Sick name for a d-men pair.” He says, tossing the final words over his shoulder as he skates away.

Justin looks at Birkholtz, Birkholtz looks back at Justin.

The nausea settles, something else prickling in his stomach and along the back of his neck. It’s excitement, raw and blistering and when Ransom smiles Holster grins down at him and offers a fist. Ransom bumps it, and he swears he can feel the heat of Holster’s knuckles through their gloves.

“C’mon,” Holster says, flicking out his stick to tap Ransom’s shin pad. It’s just a small thing, but it’s grounding. “Show me what you got, partner.” He challenges, but it’s filled with a comfortable warmth, not blistering heat. Holster glances towards a puck that’s just a few meters, mouth opening to speak, but before he can get the words out Ransom takes off. Holster’s right on his tail, Ransom somehow already knows exactly where he is, but Ransom still reaches the puck first. Holster pulls up beside him and snakes his stick out to tap Ransom’s pads again, a concession to his victory, and then he takes off in a burst of surprising speed to get in position to begin the drill.

The rest of practice passes in a breathless blur. Ransom is out of shape, even months out from his surgery, but he’s still faster than most of his teammates. Still, his endurance isn’t where it needs to be, he knows that, even if Hall and Murray have assured him that he’ll be fine as long as he can play full shifts by the time the season comes around.

He’s exhausted by the time practice ends, but he’s already looking forward to tomorrow. He hasn’t been misgendered once, hasn’t been checked unduly, hasn’t had pucks fired at him with the goal nowhere in sight, and best of all, he’s pretty sure he’s made a friend. Holster sticks to his side like glue, kneeling next to him when Murray gives a short talk at the end of practice, and he stays kneeling when Ransom hesitates while the rest of the team skates towards the locker room.

Ransom’s not ready to leave the ice. He’s bone tired, sweaty, sticky in places no human wants to be sticky, and the team has been  _fine_  but he’s not ready. Maybe they’ve been okay because they don’t know, maybe he’s been passing this whole time, maybe they’re just _waiting_ until all the ways he’s different become obvious but Ransom’s not ready to go into that locker room. He’d always thought walking in would be the hardest step but now he knows it’s not and Ransom has no idea what to do.

“Hey,” Holster says suddenly, his deep voice cutting through the panicked white noise mounting in Ransom’s ears. “I still have some gas in the tank if you want to keep going. We gotta pick up the pucks anyway since we’re Frogs, so it’s probably fine if we keep em’ out a bit longer.” Holster pushes himself up with a small grunt, lazily gliding towards the forty-odd pucks that the team clustered in the general area of center ice. He deftly snags one, dangling it smoothly and  _Jesus_ , he’s got soft hands, but before Ransom can stare at him too long he twists his wrist and the puck sails into the empty net.

Ransom stands, muscles protesting loudly, but he follows Holster’s path anyway and claims a puck of his own. When he enters the neutral zone Holster’s just looped back around, but he doesn’t go back to center ice to get another puck. He heads straight for Ransom, banking just before he crashes into him and assumes a defensive position.

“Hey!” Ransom protests, heading for the boards for some protection. “No one defended you!”

Holster grins and his stick shoots out, clacking against Ransom’s as he tries to steal the puck. “Yeah, but if we do this then you’ll know how I defend from a different angle. We’re partners now and this is the only way for me to know how you play when I’m not next to you.” Holster almost shouts, voice sounding off the rink and steady even as he moves with Ransom, reading his movements with surprising - if annoying - accuracy. It makes sense, Ransom knows, but Ransom’s competitive streak is heating up and if Holster has a goal then Ransom needs one, too, so he sends the puck between Holster’s legs so it hits the boards and bounces off the boards to ricochet back to the center of the ice. Ransom takes off, sailing around Holster to intercept the puck and collect it when it’s just in front of the goal, tapping it in gently as Holster’s laughter echoes around the empty rink.

“Fuck yeah!” Holster cheers, coming up beside Ransom to thump him solidly on the back. “Okay, you do me now.” He says before charging back to center ice to grab another puck. Ransom follows him, and they chase each other until their legs are about to give out, trading pucks until most of them are in the back of the net. It doesn’t take them long to clean everything up and by the time they reach the locker room everyone else has left. Holster goes straight to his cubby, stripping his gear in quick, efficient movements, and he’s off to the showers before Ransom even has his undershirt off.

The water turns on, and a soft melody echoes off the tiles, because not only is Holster an excellent hockey player, surprisingly perceptive person, and maybe Ransom’s new friend, but he’s also a shower singer.

Ransom thinks he can work with that. He settles in on the other side of the shower, and for the first time it’s not absolute hell to be naked around a teammate. There’s no stares, no mass of bodies that belong in a space he does not, no way he and he alone stands out. It’s loud, mostly, and kind of strange when Holster starts singing about  mysterious letters and Russian grandmothers (that’s what Babooshkas are, right?) but Ransom doesn’t hate it.

Holster’s done before he is and when Ransom returns from the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist Holster is mostly dressed. He’s still shirtless; the muscles in his back shift under his pale skin as he digs around in his bag. Ransom clears his throat and throws on his own clothes, and there’s a comfortable silence as they settle into the room. Ransom’s not sure he’s ever felt comfortable in a locker room before, but it’s good. They’ll be spending a lot of time here, after all.

“So,” Holster begins, finally having extracted his t-shirt from his bag. “Tomorrow’s practice is apparently pretty light - more team bonding than anything else - so do you want to hit the gym after? I need a spotter and you won’t let me die, right?” He says as he tugs his shirt down over his head, the words muffled by the fabric.

Ransom’s still buttoning up his shirt when Holster’s head pops up through the collar, wet hair sticking up in every direction, and Ransom knows, he  _knows_  Holster can see the two scars on his chest. They’re still fresh even months after the surgery, and Holster’s eyes flicker down then back up to his face.

Ransom waits. If things are going to go bad, this is the moment. He slowly buttons up his shirt, taking his time with the intricate motions. He doesn’t have anything to apologize for. He doesn’t have to cover himself up, make himself smaller, do anything to make him less himself to accommodate anyone.

Holster swallows. His blue eyes flicker around the room, then back to Ransom’s face. Ransom waits. Straightens his spine. Rolls his shoulders back and braces himself.

“Dude, it kind of seems like you’d let me die.” Holster jokes mildly, smoothing his hair back as his gaze sinks to the dressing room floor. “You can say no, I know I’m.” He cuts himself off with a quick huff of breath, reaching for his backpack. “I’m kind of a lot. I’ll see you at practice.”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

That is not how Ransom thought that interaction would go.

“Yeah, the gym sounds good. I promise I won’t let you die.” Ransom calls out just before Holster makes it to the door. Holster pauses and turns back, a slow smile appearing on his face. “Wait up, which dorm are you going to?” Ransom asks, hoping they live in the same place. They do, just a floor away from each other, and Ransom can’t imagine anything better.

They walk back to their dorm together, and they only get lost once.

Practice the next day is less than excellent. Holster’s assessment was correct - it was much more focused on team building than anything else - and while most of the team is fine there are a few upperclassmen who. Well. Ransom’s accustomed to stares. They don’t say anything, but there’s a tension hanging in the air. He and Holster are split up for most of the day and Ransom is paired with Jack ZImmermann, of all people, who glares at him for a long minute before speaking.

“You’re from Canada.” Jack says, voice flat. Ransom nods, unsure of what to say. Jack just nods, once, and they continue with the exercise in silence. Jack doesn’t speak, barely make eye contact, and spends most of the time watching other players with a critical gaze, but when practice is over he nods at Ransom again and his cool glare seems to have warmed, slightly, and Ransom will take what he can get. He and Holster stay on the ice and pick up pucks again, but they change from their gear into workout clothes and jog around Faber a few times before heading back in to the weightroom.

It turns out Holster likes to sing during cardio, too, and Ransom thinks he can get used to hearing that deep, breathless voice beside him on runs. He claims it’s good for breath control, but Ransom thinks it just might be good for  _Holster_ , and he can’t really blame him for that.

They’re not alone in the weight room, but luckily they’re the only ones using the weights. There are a few runners on the treadmill, presumably other student athletes, but they’re all the way on the other side of the room and it feels like they have the place to themselves. For the first time all day, they split up. They orbit around each other, trading off on machines and moving through their own rotations, meeting up an hour later to stretch. They quietly standing beside each other as they continue to go through their own routines, and as Holster tucks his arm behind his head to stretch his triceps, Ransom can’t help but admire the definition. He swallows, once, and bends over to stretch his quads before he speaks so he doesn’t have to make eye contact.

“So you’re uh, kinda ripped. Like, almost freakily ripped.” Ransom says, the words leaving a quick woosh of air as he forces them out. Beside him, Holster laughs and bends down so their heads are dangling beside each other.

“Not much else to do in Iowa besides drink beer and work out,” Holster says mildly, jerking his shoulders up in a little upside down shrug. “Believe me, I drank a lot of beer, but I also worked out a lot, too. I thought I was gonna go pro for a bit there, so I trained for it.” Holster says, like actually believing that you’re going to play in the NHL isn’t fucking extraordinary.

“Can you show me some things? I wasn’t able to work out as much as I wanted for a couple months and I’m trying to get some definition in my chest.” Ransom says, desperately hoping he sounds casual. What he said wasn’t quite as explicit as  _I’m trans and I had top surgery and I want to have pecs where I used to have boobs so can you help me make that happen?_  But it kind of feels like that’s what he’d just said, anyway.

Ransom lets his arms swing, knuckles brushing against the blue mat. Beside him, Holster straightens up.

“For sure! There are like, a million things you can do. Do you want to start now?” Holster asks, sounding more excited by the prospect than Ransom had anticipated.

“Uh, sure.” Ransom agrees, and Holster bounds over to the weight rack. Ransom follows, and the next thing he knows Holster is handing him weights and directing his movements. He walks Ransom through a few exercises, explaining exactly which muscle groups they’ll affect. Finally, he guides Ransom towards the bench press.

Ransom sits as Holster adds weight to the barbell. “Can I ask you something that you can definitely not answer if you don’t want to?” Ransom asks, watching as Holster guides the heavy disks with sure movements. Holster pauses, for a moment, then carries on.

“Sure,” he agrees mildly. “Shoot.”

“How did you know you weren’t going to go pro?” Ransom asks, wincing his way through the question. It’s not his business, not really, but they’ve gotten along so well and  _maybe_  - well. They seem like they’re friends. Ransom hopes they are. This time, Holster doesn’t pause. He puts the last weight on the barbell with a soft  _clank_.

“Didn’t get drafted,” He says, just as mildly. “Didn’t even put my name in.” Holster stands at the head of the bench as Ransom lays down and gets into position. “It was time to stop, so I stopped.” Their hands brush when Holster helps him lower the bar but he drops them when Ransom begins the first rep. He’s quiet for a moment as Ransom pumps the barbell. “Here, tuck your elbows in some more. Overextending will hurt your shoulders.” Holster says as he taps lightly on Ransom’s arms. Ransom corrects his movement.

“How did you know,” Ransom asks, voice strained as he raises the barbell only to lower it back down. “Know when to,” He cuts himself off, forcing the air from his lungs in a harsh grunt. His chest and arms are on  _fire_ , sweat sticking in nooks and crannies he’d almost forgotten about in the past few months. He forces air in through his nose, and begins the final rep. “Know when to, ah, _fuck_ , to stop?” He asks as he straightens his trembling arms, and Holster is there to remove the barbell from his hands. He lifts it easily, bare biceps shifting under his pale skin.

The metal clinks harshly when Holster sets it back into place, almost harmonizing with his low hum. He’s probably not even aware he’s making sound as he’s thinking, but the melody rises and falls as Holster adds more weight to the end of the barbell. Ransom’s not even sure how he knows Holster is thinking, but there’s something in the set of his brow that tells him. Ransom wipes the sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt. Holster tosses him a towel when he’s finished adding weight.

“I guess,” Holster begins as he sits down next to Ransom on the bench. Their knees and shoulders knock together; Ransom can’t remember the last time a teammate touched him so casually. Holster’s staring up at the ceiling, still gathering his thoughts. “I guess I had to realize that wanting it wasn’t enough, no matter how much I wanted it. I was never gonna be good enough to make it all the way which is,” Holster huffs out a breath, the corners of his lips curl up in a rueful smile. “It’s whatever. Sometimes you’re not enough, you know?” Holster lifts his shoulder in a little half shrug.

And the thing is, Ransom doesn’t know. Thought it all, through the confusion and fear and pain and displacement and  _all of it_ , Ransom has never not thought he was good enough. He has always been enough for himself, because for so long that was all he had. He had monumental moments, monoliths he raised from the ground and pushed into place through sheer will (throwing away the last dress, cutting his hair, telling his parents, choosing his name, and so many more, his fingernails digging into the granite as he pulled himself up inch by inch until he reached where he is now) but Ransom has never, not once, thought that he wasn’t enough. He can’t imagine it.

Justin Oluransi does not give up on himself, not ever, and when he looks over Holster’s shoulders are slumped and his little half smile is gone. He doesn’t look doesn’t look anything like the Holster he’s come to know in the past few days. Their eyes meet; Holster looks  _exhausted_  and Ransom doesn’t know who or what made him think he wasn’t good enough when all he’s been is good.

Then Holster blinks, and the teammate Ransom’s known is back, armed with a bright grin. He leans over and bumps his shoulder against Ransom’s, their sweaty skin sticking together which,  _gross_ , but Ransom doesn’t actually hate it.

“Get up there and spot me, bro. Unless your little noodle arms can’t take it.” Holster’s smiling but the words make Ransom’s hackles rise, lowered shields thrown up hastily in his attempt to avoid the attack. It doesn’t make sense, Holster’s been so Not Terrible, why would he say something like that? And why something so objectively mild? Ransom’s been called much worse than a noodle, after all, and -  _oh._

This is what chirping is supposed to feel like. There’s no razor edge hidden beneath Holster’s words, no insult wrapped in brightly colored paper and a big bow. Holster’s just chirping him because they’re teammates, because they’re d-partners, because they’re  _Ransom &Holster._

Ransom grins.

“These noodle arms are all that stand between you and a crushed trachea.” Ransom reminds him, snaking his arm out to punch Holster’s shoulder before he lays down. Holster laughs as they settle into position, blue eyes tracking Ransom’s movements as they both reach for the barbell.

“Shit, you’re right,” Holster concedes, voice level despite the enormous amount of weight he’s currently raising over his head in smooth motions. “I’d better stay on your good side since you gotta deal with me for the rest of the season.” His gaze flickers up to meet Ransom’s; they’re in a weird position, turned around and upside down but when he smiles Ransom returns it.

“We can’t waste these sick nicknames, after all.” Ransom says. Something magic had happened in the rink when Shitty had sailed past and thrown their new titles over his shoulder.  _Ransom &Holster_. It feels almost mystical when he says them together, in one breath, like one isn’t meant to carry though the air without the other right behind it. Ransom thinks he likes that.

“True,” Holster agrees, exertion finally showing on his face. He glares up at the barbell but continues pushing and pulling until beads of sweat spill from his forehead down his face, until his face is red, until his arms are trembling and he’s forcing air in and out of his lungs in harsh bursts.

_It’s whatever. Sometimes you’re not enough, you know?_

Ransom takes the barbell before Holster’s arms give out and he drops two hundred pounds on his face. Holster doesn’t even protest. His arms swing down, chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath. Ransom drops his towel on his face; breathless laughter floats up through the fabric. Holster sits up and Ransom plops down beside him once again, shoulders sticking together once again.

The weight room is quiet. The footsteps of the runners on the treadmills across the room pound rhythmically as a pop song from 2008 plays over the speakers. Holster’s breathing calms eventually, but it’s nice to just sit. They’re done working out but Ransom knows all that’s waiting for him is an empty dorm room with a few more boxes to unpack.

“Hey,” Holster says suddenly. He drags the towel over his face, his cheeks still flushed from exertion. It’s strange, seeing such a delicate shade of pink splashed over his strong, angular features. “Have you ever seen  _Cheers_?”

“Cheers?” Ransom asks. It sounds vaguely familiar but he’s not entirely sure what it is. “Is that a movie?” He guesses, and judging from Holster’s affronted expression, he guessed wrong.

Holster stands suddenly, reaching down for Ransom’s hand. “Okay, no, come on. You’re coming with me and getting the cultural education of your life. How the fuck do you not know about  _Cheers_ , the twenty eight time Emmy award winning series? I am agog, I am  _aghast_.” He rants as he pulls Ransom though the weight room, their fingers linked together firmly to keep Ransom’s sweaty hand from slipping away. Ransom’s just barely able to throw their towels in the hamper before Holster drags him to the locker room but he can’t help but grin as he follows, tired legs working to keep up with Holster’s overly excited half-jog.

It turns out Ransom can’t fucking stand Cheers but the hours spent in Holster’s room eating too much popcorn (Holster manages to catch forty six pieces in his mouth in a row) and only occasionally getting off the couch to stretch (Ransom is more flexible, they’ll have to work on that) or arm wrestle (a pathetic attempt after their workout) or going through Holster’s Facebook to like his profile pictures from middle school so they show up on everyone’s newsfeed (Holster doesn’t even attempt to dig through Ransom’s old pictures, which Ransom appreciates even though his new Facebook account is only a week old) or making plans to go to their first party together (“Apparently they call them kegsters here, which is fucking amazing.” “I think we’re supposed to say ‘swaesome now.” “Ooh, nice catch! You’re so smart, bro.”)?

Ransom thinks he likes that a lot.


End file.
